Shadows
by AstraPerAspera
Summary: Back on earth after her command of Atlantis, shadows of the past haunt Sam's dreams. Sam/Jack established.
1. I

**Stargate SG-1**

**Shadows**

By

AstraPerAspera

**I**

The sun shouldn't be shining.

It was the first thought that crossed her mind as she stepped out of the cool dimness of the chapel and squinted into the golden light that seemed incongruously cheerful. Beside her, Jack was already adjusting his hat and sliding on his sunglasses, his eyes becoming unreadable behind the tinted reflective glass. Not that he could hide them from her. Or at least, not what they revealed. She'd watched him sideways for the past hour; the tense working of his jaw line, the rigid posture, the occasional throat clearing. He may have seemed a casual attendee to the rest of the mourners, but Sam knew better. At least he hadn't had to give the eulogy a second time. This was a civilian memorial service, after all. He'd been there because he'd wanted to; not because he had to. Even so, from what Sam could tell, it hadn't been any easier on him the second time around.

"General O'Neill?"

The woman's voice brought them both up short, and Sam pulled back the hand she had been ready to reach out to Jack. She would have to be comforting partner later. For the moment she needed to be Colonel Carter. Especially since she recognized the woman who had just spoken.

She might have been her own mother's age—aging but not elderly, and she moved with determined steps through the lingering crowd toward them. Elegant looking, well-dressed, as though she had spent her life paying attention to the finer details of social niceties and diplomatic etiquette. Which, in fact, Sam knew to be the case. A vague thought about apples not falling far from the tree flitted through her mind. She felt Jack go ever so slightly rigid next to her as the woman approached.

"General O'Neill," she repeated, stepping forward and offering her hand.

"Mrs. Weir," replied Jack, taking it. "Please accept my condolences on the loss of your daughter."

Sam winced. Somehow the usual and customary consolation seemed especially trite in these circumstances. Especially when she knew that it didn't begin to express what Jack really felt. Not that she was going to do much better.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," she heard herself say.

Mrs. Weir brushed her with a glance, which under other circumstances might have stung, but not today.

"Mrs. Weir, this is Colonel Samantha Carter."

Mrs. Weir's glance lingered longer this time.

"Did you know my daughter, Colonel?"

Sam didn't have to look at Jack to feel the caution he was sending her way.

"Yes, ma'am. But not well."

That was the truth at least. She hadn't known Elizabeth Weir well, much to her regret. Their interactions had been brief and, under the circumstances, borderline antagonistic during her brief stint at the SGC. And while the events in the Pegasus galaxy had flitted along the edge of her periphery with the occasional back and forth through the gate or via the Daedalus, quite frankly, Sam had had more immediate concerns keeping the Ori at bay.

But she did know Dr. Weir had left behind very big shoes. And that she'd been the one who'd had to try to fill them. Two facts she could not share with the woman who stood before them, looking, she knew, for answers.

Obviously not finding them with Sam, she had turned back to Jack, who was remaining carefully military in both stature and attitude. So very unlike him in so many ways that Sam felt herself straighten slightly in the presence of The General. She wondered if he'd anticipated this. And why, in fact, he'd insisted on coming.

"May I speak with you, General?" Mrs. Weir's subtle turning of a shoulder to Sam an indication that she intended this to be a private conversation. Jack, though, ignored the implication and didn't budge an inch, which Sam took as a sign that she should stay put. If he had in fact known this was coming, he'd also be depending on her for the moral support to get through it. Not that he hadn't had to misdirect dozens of similar pleas from distraught family members at dozens of other funerals. But this one was different. He hadn't said so explicitly, but Sam knew. This one was hard.

Mrs. Weir gave her another glance, but seemed finally resigned to the fact that she was not going to get the general alone.

"I wanted to ask you about Elizabeth…," she began, her voice quavering slightly at her daughter's name. "I received your letter, General…and the one from Mr. Woolsey. Neither of them went into specifics and no one from the Air Force seems able—or perhaps it's willing—to answer my questions."

Sam saw Jack's jaw work ever so slightly during this preamble, but to Mrs. Weir she knew he must have seemed as impassive as the nearby stone pillar.

"I'm afraid information about the project Dr. Weir was working on remains classified. Whatever information you've received is all that is able to be released at the moment." He sounded so much like Woolsey that Sam found herself giving him a side-long glance, just to make sure. She could see his thinned lips and knew the anger they betrayed was not at the woman in front of him but at the situation that necessitated them being here in the first place.

"I don't care what she was working on, General. I don't care what country she was in or even who was responsible for her death. Knowing those things isn't going to bring her back, and in the end, they're hardly important—at least not to me." The woman fumbled with the folded program in her hand as her voice broke. Sam looked away for a moment, allowing her the privacy she needed to collect herself, hating this as much as she knew Jack did. Finally, her composure reinstated, Mrs. Weir looked up into Jack's still passive and hidden face. "You didn't even bring her body back…. All I want to know is _how_ she died. Surely that's not too much to ask."

Sam knew what Jack was going to say before he even said it, because she understood now that his purpose for coming hadn't been to bring the woman answers. It had been to give her the decency of a real human face that would tell her, in some way other than a damned, cold letter, that she was not permitted to know anything more than she already knew. A face to go with the brutal fact that she was consigned to eternal ignorance about the loss of the most important person in her life. A face to which she could assign all her anger and dismay and grief because it was, after all, much more satisfying to be angry at a person than at a bureaucracy. And because of how he'd felt about Elizabeth, Jack was willing to be that face.

But she wouldn't let him do it alone. Not when she felt she carried some of the blame herself. Jack would disagree—had disagreed, especially when the latest report from Atlantis detailing the bizarre encounter with the Replicated Weir had crossed his desk. But at this point, Sam concluded, it didn't matter. She cut him off before he could say the words that had already formed on his lips.

"She died well, Mrs. Weir." She felt Jack's disapproving glare from behind his glasses, but she was determined to not let this woman leave without some peace in her heart. "She sacrificed herself and saved thousands…probably even millions of lives. You can be proud of her. She died as she lived—in the service of others."

"Colonel…." Jack's voice was a low grumble half under his breath. He would be angry, she had no doubt. Hell. She'd probably violated half a dozen regs by saying the little bit she'd said. But she didn't care. Elizabeth's mother deserved something. And Jack didn't need to shoulder any more burdens that weren't his.

Mrs. Weir turned back to Sam. "I thought you didn't know my daughter?" It was more challenge than question.

"Not as well as I would have liked." If she had trod on dangerous ground earlier, she was about to enter a virtual mine field. Jack would be livid. She didn't care. "But I was there. I know what she did. And so do a lot of other people. We will never forget her."

The woman's eyes refused to let Sam's go as if she were trying to determine the truth behind what she'd said. Finally, satisfied, she gave a slight nod of her head, even as her eyes shone with tears. A tall slender man who looked vaguely familiar came up behind her and touched her arm, breaking the moment. But Sam knew she'd given the woman what she'd needed. Beside her, she felt Jack relax just a bit.

"Patricia…" the man said gently, glancing apologetically at Sam and Jack. Mrs. Weir turned and her face lit in recognition.

"Simon…." Without another look their way, she allowed herself to be guided away toward a small group of acquaintances who'd been waiting nearby. Sam let out a deep sigh, just realizing that she'd in fact been holding her breath. She wasn't sure she wanted to risk looking at Jack just yet.

She didn't have to. She felt his hand on her elbow, turning her away from the remaining guests and toward the steps leading down to where his staff car waited.

"You shouldn't have done that," he told her quietly. "It doesn't work that way, just because we want it to."

"She deserved more than what we were giving her."

"Yeah," he admitted, bitterness tingeing his voice. "Don't they all."

Sam felt a sharp pang. Seventeen. The number was forever etched into her brain. Seventeen carefully worded letters of condolence she'd written over the past year to families who would never see their loved ones again. Seventeen names she could recite from memory, each with someone like Patricia Weir, left wondering how and why. Jack was right. They were no less deserving than the woman back there. They just didn't happen to be standing in front of her, asking.

"It doesn't get any easier, does it," she said finally, still not daring to look at him. It wasn't really a question. She already knew the answer. It had been written all over his face the entire day.

"No," he replied softly and then added, so quietly she nearly missed it, "Thank God."


	2. II

**II**

Jack's deep steady breathing told her that he'd been asleep for a long while, as did the weight of his head pressing against her shoulder. But she would willingly lay pinned there forever rather than move it herself. Too many nights on Atlantis she'd spent missing him—the comforting heat of his body curled perfectly against hers, his warm breath soft against her neck. She wasn't about to complain. She let her fingers gently play through his hair, lightly enough so as not to disturb him. Even so, he stirred slightly at her touch, his arm across her waist tightening momentarily before relaxing back into the deep sleep he'd only lately learned to enjoy.

Because she suspected that, like she, he no longer slept well when he slept alone. And a year of sleeping alone, with only the rarest of opportunities to be together, was a long string of nearly endless, restless nights. At least they had been for her. A photograph was, after all, poor company.

But if she were honest with herself, and she'd come to the point in her life where she realized that there was little point in being anything but, Jack had been only part of the reason for her bouts of insomnia on Atlantis. There had been, of course, the usual things. Especially in the beginning. Doubts. Anxieties. Trying to fit in without treading on too many toes. Learning the ropes. Getting to know the personalities. Dealing with McKay. Soothing frazzled nerves. Replacing Elizabeth Weir.

The last one had, undoubtedly, been the most difficult. And yet, as she looked on it now with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, she realized that—with the possible exception of Ronan—she had been the one most sensitive about taking Weir's place. Yet even the Satedan had given her the benefit of the doubt a lot sooner than she had herself. Finally, though, a few dozen major crises later, she'd stopped laying awake at night second guessing her every move. Even her fall-back technique of "What would Jack do?" had ceased to be her crutch. She'd learned to fly a whole new way.

What had caught her off-guard, though—more than the loneliness, more than the self-doubt—had been finding herself in a galaxy where Replicators still thrived. She hadn't expected the emotional response she'd felt upon first encountering them. The wraith with their appetite for human life were daunting, to be sure. But then so was a snake that wanted to take up residence inside your brain. Bullies and parasites she could deal with; she'd met humans, after all, who were hardly any different. But the human form replicator was a different matter. Intelligent beyond comprehension, logical to a fault. Deceptive in appearance, with the ability to create a world seamlessly indistinguishable from reality, drawn from her own psyche of hope and fears, dreams and nightmares.

Beads of ice-cold perspiration trickled down Sam's back and suddenly she found she could lie there no longer, immobilized under Jack's weight. The edge of panic gripped her—the need to escape, feel her arms and legs, walk, run, flee…. She could hear her own breath coming in short gasps as she slid sideways toward the edge of the bed, trying her best to disengage from Jack without waking him. But at her stirrings he repeated his earlier response and held her more tightly. Suddenly claustrophobic, she all but peeled Jack's arm off, her fingers none too gentle as she pried his hand off her skin and scrambled free. The darkness in the room seemed closer. Denser. Almost viscous. It pressed in on her even as she heard Jack's startled and confused voice calling out to her from somewhere in it, distant and far away.

"Sam?"

A light snapped on and the black miasma vanished, the intense brightness driving away the panic that had all but suffocated her. She blinked, trying to orient herself. The room, the bed with its half-pulled off comforter, Jack—she registered each one in turn as they seemed to come back into reality.

"What's going on? What's the matter?"

She stared at Jack, uncertain how to answer. She had no idea what the matter was. Why, suddenly, she'd been seized with the irrational desire to escape. But from what? She had no answer to give—not to herself. And not to Jack, who's confusion was turning to worry before her very eyes. That alone was enough to make her shake it off…whatever "it" was. She managed a weak smile and returned to the bed.

"Nothing…sorry. Bad dream, I guess."

"You guess?" he replied, archly, flipping back the covers so she could crawl beneath them. She offered up a small laugh as he turned off the light, hoping he didn't notice how forced it was, pushing aside the memory of panic as she slipped between the sheets and into his arms. She felt chilled to the bone and although she tried to control it, found herself shivering, in spite of Jack's embrace.

"Cold?"

"A little," she confessed, and she felt him pull her to him even more tightly in response. Not that it helped much, as wave after wave of convulsive chills rippled through her overwrought muscles. She tried to focus on relaxing, on releasing the tension that kept every muscle taut and on edge; and after a bit, with the help of Jack's warm body wrapped around her, the shaking stopped. She took one final deep breath and exhaled slowly, feeling the last of whatever it was seep out of her.

Quietly, in her ear, he asked: "So—you okay now?"

Even though it was pitch black in the room she nodded. "Yeah. I'm good. Thanks."

"Helluva dream," he added a few moments later.

Maybe it had been. She guessed it was possible she'd dozed off and some horror from her subconscious had risen to terrify her. It wasn't like it didn't have a lot of material to work with. Sure. She'd go with the bad dream explanation. She was too weary all of a sudden to try to dissect it any further.

"Yeah. Must have been," she replied, finally, closing her eyes against the relentless darkness of the room. She really hadn't been afraid of the dark since she was three, but for some reason, she didn't want to look into this moonless night. It held too much…substance.

She felt Jack shift slightly, his arm finding a more comfortable position, his chin resting on her hair as he kept her tightly against his chest. She could hear his heart beating. It was soothing.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked again a few minutes later. This time she smiled. Jack her Protector, even though she'd made it clear all those years ago that she didn't need one—at least not in that way. Because really, evil aliens and conniving politicians weren't the worst of it. She was, after all, her own worst enemy. And it had taken Jack to ultimately protect her from herself. Which was maybe the real reason she'd missed him so terribly this past year.

"Mmmm. Fine," she murmured in reply. "Just a dream." Which was all it was, now. She was sure. A stupid dream and nothing more.

And as sleep pulled her toward the relief of nothingness, the sensation of Jack's kiss atop her head was the last thing she remembered.


	3. III

**III**

It was like being drawn out of a deep cavern by a rope. Everywhere was darkness and she had only the vaguest sensation of what surrounded her. Yet, as some amorphous, distant light drew closer and closer, bit by bit her reality emerged from the dusky depths, taking on shape and form and dimension. Sight. Sound. Touch. The feel of something on her arm. Gentle. Slow. Tender.

Sam opened her eyes. It was barely dawn and yet in the shadows that blurred and blended the real and the imagined she saw him watching her, the finger of one hand trailing softly up and down her exposed right arm. Seeing she was awake, he smiled, and because she loved nothing better than to see his face first thing in the morning and know, finally, that she was home, she smiled too.

"Hey," she said, sleepily. "No fair."

"What?" His voice was deep and husky and entirely too innocent.

"One of us has to get up and go to work," she replied, regretfully. An impish look crossed his face.

"It's early."

She glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the nightstand.

"Not that early," she sighed.

"Early enough," he murmured, leaning toward her. His lips found hers in the semi-darkness, at first tentative and then more insistent. She felt his hand brush her shoulder, her cheek, her chin--the back of his long fingers traveling down her neck. Resolve was slowly slipping away, overwhelmed by his intensity.

"I knew you always felt this way about me, Samantha," Jack moaned, his lips following the path his hand had taken.

Except it wasn't Jack's voice.

Stark horror raced through her as she pushed him away from her. He looked surprised at first but then he grinned. It was a horrible grin, one she'd never before seen on Jack O'Neill's face.

Because it wasn't Jack O'Neill's face. It shimmered momentarily and resolved into an image which, even in the quasi-light, she knew only too well.

Fifth.

"No!" She shook her head in disbelief, still holding him off of her with an outstretched arm. "You're dead. She destroyed you!"

He leered at her and in one fluid movement grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back. She cried out, less in pain than in frustration; he had come close to her again; too close. His breath was hot and oddly metallic as he pressed his cheek against hers, burying his face in her hair, his lips close to her ear. She could feel the weight of him pressing against her and she couldn't move.

"I knew you'd never forget me. I knew you'd love me forever," he hissed softly in her ear. "Always," he added, mockingly.

"NO!" She struggled violently now. She would get away. She had to get away. He had pinned her shoulders to the bed, leaving her legs free. She aimed them his way with deadly precision.

"Ouch! Dammit…Sam…it's me…wake up!"

Like an explosion the room around her shattered, and Fifth with it. Still…she found herself in the same room…in the same murky pre-dawn light…with a dark form still holding her down.

She fought back with everything she had. No thought; no strategy. Just raw instinct to free herself.

"Carter…Carter!! Stand down!"

The voice…Jack's voice…broke through her blind fury as she realized that she was no longer being restrained and that the form had retreated to the other side of the bed.

The room pulsed and throbbed for a few moments until she recognized it as merely the blood pounding madly in her ears. She tried to focus in the limited light and saw, at last, that it _was_ Jack whom she had been fighting against. Jack who was watching her warily and—now she could see it—with great concern from across the bed.

At least she prayed it was Jack.

She looked wildly around, trying to latch onto some clue. Something else to tell her that this was her reality. Not some dream. Not some replicator-induced fantasy. Something to assure her that this was, indeed, her life.

Jack's voice brought her attention back to him.

"Easy…," he said, soothingly. "You're okay. I'm not going to hurt you, Sam."

It really was him. She knew it this time. His voice was filled with warmth and love and worry that no replicator could ever reproduce. It was the only thing in the room she knew she could trust.

"Jack…?" She could hear the trembling in her own voice and hated it. And yet, she couldn't help it. Nor the trembling in her hands now either. She saw Jack breathe what seemed like a sigh of relief as he moved back toward her. It took every ounce of her willpower not to flinch when he placed his hand on her arm. The memory of Fifth's touch, even if it had only been a dream, was still too raw.

"Yeah…I'm here."

"I…." She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to dislodge the image she had of Jack's face morphing into Fifth's. "Sorry…did I hurt you?" She opened them again and risked another glance. He was still Jack and he was, she could tell, trying to figure out just what was going on.

She wished she knew.

"Um…well…," he replied with practiced nonchalance. "Nowhere important, which is all that matters, I guess. Though those legs of yours should probably be classified as a lethal weapon."

She chuckled softly, in spite of everything.

"Sam…." His tone was completely different this time. Quiet and serious. She'd been avoiding his gaze as long as possible, but she had no choice but to look at him now. "What's goin' on?"

"I don't know…nothing, I guess. Just a dream."

"Another one."

She shrugged. The night before had been no dream, she knew that now. Just…well. She wasn't sure what it was. But it hadn't been like this. She didn't know how to explain it to him. And she sure as hell didn't want to tell him what her subconscious had just cooked up.

"Maybe it was something I ate," she offered weakly. In response, Jack gave her a look that, for a moment, so reminded her of her father that she felt her breath catch before the look vanished and she only saw Jack. What in the world was the matter with her?

"Yeah. Right."

"I'm fine, really," she lied, knowing at the moment she felt anything but fine. But in the lightening room she could see the worry-creases across Jack's brow. She knew he'd only let this go if she could convince him there was nothing wrong. Or at least throw him off the scent. "Maybe the memorial service stirred some things up." She shrugged. Fifth had nothing to do with Elizabeth Weir or Atlantis. Jack would probably figure out she was grasping at straws but at least maybe he'd get the idea to leave it alone. Because really, the less she thought about Fifth's invasion of her dreams, the better.

And the sooner she could rid herself of the irrational fear that Jack really wasn't Jack, the sooner she could put this whole disturbing night behind her. Because having Jack's hand resting on her arm really shouldn't make her skin creep. And the intensity of his gaze shouldn't make her cringe. And leaving their bed shouldn't be the thing she wanted to do more than anything else.

Murmuring something about being late for work, she slipped out from under Jack's touch and tried not to run to the bathroom, where she stood under the steaming hot water for a full half hour doing her best not to think about why she needed to scrub herself thoroughly three times over before she felt truly clean.


	4. IV

**IV**

"Finish him!"

She raised the disruptor and aimed it at Fifth. Beside her Jack's voice offered her encouragement.

"Do it. Finish him."

She took a deep breath and tried to steady the oversized weapon in her hand. It was light-weight if unwieldy, but for all that, it would not stay still. It was her own hands which were trembling as she realigned the sight on the being who stood before her, hands partially raised. His eyes pleaded with her not to fire and in them she could still make out the innocent affection he'd held for her the first time they'd met. Her index finger could feel the smooth metallic curve of the trigger; it had some play in it and she squeezed it until she met resistance, her hand still shaking ever so slightly.

"Don't disappoint me, Sam."

Jack was so close that his words almost buzzed in her ear. She flinched at his insistence, but she knew he was right. Fifth could not live. And it was only right that she be the one to do it. She had betrayed him already; she was responsible for what he had become. She was the one who had to end this.

And Jack was counting on her.

She reset her stance and aimed again. The words "I'm sorry" hissed out under her breath and she squeezed the trigger.

The kick-back surprised her as the familiar "pop" of a single shot from a P90 rang out. Somehow she had the wrong weapon. Startled, she looked up at Fifth and saw, instead, the pain-filled eyes of Jack staring back at her, a dark patch of crimson spreading across his desert camo BDUs.

"Carter…." His voice was oddly tight and strangled as he sank to his knees and then onto the floor, the pool of blood spreading beneath him until he was all but surrounded by it. She was immobilized. Frozen. She could only stare at him and at the weapon in her hand, a twisting, heaving knot roiling in her gut. Next to her a low voice chuckled.

In confusion she turned. Jack stood there too, a smug look on his face as he surveyed his duplicate, pale and lifeless in the still puddling blood.

"You have done well," he told her, smiling coldly. "Soon you will be ready to take your place by my side."

She knew it would happen a half second before it did. Jack's face rippled and Fifth stood there, his steel-flecked eyes glinting with satisfaction. Instinctively she stepped away and brought the P90 to bear on him, but he only laughed at her.

"Go ahead. You know it won't do any good. Your worthless projectile weaponry has no effect on me. Too bad you can't say the same for that pathetically weak flesh you humans value so highly." He aimed a smirk at Jack's body.

She switched the gun to automatic without even thinking and fired. A dozen holes riddled Fifth's body. He looked at her bemused and with another ripple made himself whole once more.

She'd never felt such rage. Rage and grief and fear. She toggled the switch back to single shot mode and took a head shot. There was something vaguely satisfying in seeing Fifth with a gaping hole in his forehead. But a second later it too was gone.

"You can't get rid of me, you know. I'll always be right here." He tapped his head with his forefinger. "You'll think I've gone. You'll think you're free of me. But you're not. And you never will be." His face rippled again and Jack stood there once more. But it was a lie. It wasn't Jack. She knew it wasn't Jack.

She took aim with the P90 again and fired. Another clean headshot.

Only this time blood ran down from the small hole neatly placed in the middle of his forehead. She glanced frantically to where Jack's body had lain on the ground only to discover it had vanished. Horror filled her as she looked back at the figure in front of her, dead before he even hit the ground.

"Nice shot," congratulated a voice at her side. "Very precise. I'm sure I didn't feel a thing." She spun around to see Jack standing there, grinning madly.

"You're not him," she insisted, doing her best to keep the trembling doubt out of her voice. "You're not Jack."

"Maybe. Maybe not." The face morphed into Fifth's again. Behind her, another voice spoke:

"The question is…." She whirled to find yet another Jack. "How will you know?"

"How will you ever know?" asked a third Jack from over her left shoulder, just before he and the other two shuddered into Fifth's form and with a cold laugh shape shifted again back to Jack.

"How will you know?" The three repeated it in unison. "How will you know? How will you know?"

"How will I know what?"

Her stomach lurched as if she had been in a free-fall and her head snapped up so fast it almost hurt. Jack was watching her from the sofa, the now-muted television playing an eerie dancing light across his features. She realized she'd dozed off. And worse…she'd been talking in her sleep. She wondered if Jack could hear the way her heart was pounding in her chest or if he'd even known she'd been asleep, although she figured the book, which had slid half-way off her lap, was probably a dead give-away.

"How will I know what?" he repeated, eyeing her curiously from where he sat. She swallowed down the emotions the dream had churned up and did her best to find a steady voice.

"Nothing…." She tried for dismissive. "Just thinking aloud."

He looked at her suspiciously and she couldn't shake the terrifying notion that suddenly his face would shimmer and Fifth would be there in his stead. The constant movement of the light from the TV wasn't helping, as it gave the illusion that the surface of his body was shifting, just as Fifth's had done. She willed her breathing to normalcy and tried to ignore the prickling skin on the back of her neck. This was not Fifth. This was Jack. She was certain of it.

As certain as she could be, all things considered.

Which wasn't a very comforting thought after all.

"Right." Indulgence dripped from his voice. "Well…I don't know about you…but I think I've seen this show already. So I'm going to bed." He stretched, shut off the set with the remote and stood. "Care to join me?"

Raw panic jolted through her. The images from the morning's nightmare danced chillingly in front of her. Jack holding her, touching her, making love to her…only not Jack. Fifth.

She felt ill. Nauseous. The room seemed to spin until she focused all her attention on the book in front of her, willing the sensation to pass. Which was why she jumped when a hand appeared in front of her, reaching for her.

"What's up with you anyway?" Jack asked, standing next to her now. She forced herself to look up into his face and saw only the features she knew and loved. Of course she was being ridiculous. It had only been a dream. This was Jack. She was certain of it this time. Jack. Who loved her.

"Just tired, I guess," she confessed, wearily. And she was. Bone-tired. She could suddenly feel it like a weight, dragging down her entire body. She gladly took the out-stretched hand. It was warm and inviting. Not like Fifth's had been.

Damn. Why did everything keep coming back to him. Why couldn't she just erase him from her mind?

_You can't get rid of me, you know. I'll always be right here._

Fifth's face; Fifth's voice. It took everything she had not to yank her hand out of Jack's.

"What did you say?" she asked, her breath catching. Jack furrowed his brow at her.

"I said, you can't fool me, you know. I saw you dozing over here."

Of course that's what he'd said. Her mind was playing tricks on her; it was that stupid dream. Dreams. Whatever. She pushed the fear back down and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

"Caught in the act, I guess," she smiled, knowing it was forced, but hoping Jack wouldn't notice. He didn't seem to, although he didn't let go of her hand either. It was a gesture she usually loved—so simple yet so intimate. Except now she felt like a captive and she pulled free on the pretense of turning back to pick up her book, pretending not to see Jack's hand waiting for hers when she caught up to him, letting her attention go to finding her lost page and marking it.

Later, when he finally turned out the light, wrapped his arms around her and made overtures with kisses lightly teasing at the back of her neck, she mumbled some apology about being too tired. He placed one more kiss between her shoulder blades in understanding and after not too many minutes she heard the steady breathing of his sleep.

For the first time since she had slept in them, Jack's arms brought her no comfort. Despite her absolute fatigue, she could not bring herself to close her eyes.

_How will you know?_

_How will you know?_

And because she could find no absolute answer, sleep alluded her for the rest of the night.


	5. V

**V**

"You coming to bed?"

She hadn't heard him come up behind her and she jumped, startled. Had being out of the field dulled her senses that much that he could sneak up behind her like that?

Sneak. Of course he hadn't been sneaking. She was just tired; and she'd been…distracted—staring at the report on her laptop and not having typed a word, she realized, in almost twenty minutes. Her mind had been elsewhere. Places she didn't really want it to go, but which had continued to demand attention, whether she liked it or not. Places which made the thought of going to bed—of closing her eyes—less than appealing.

And she had doggedly refused to even listen to the tiny, insistent voice that suggested that Jack's presence in the bed had as much to do with her own avoidance of it as had the nightmares themselves. Which was ridiculous, of course. And not worthy of acknowledgement.

Except it was persistent.

And he'd snuck up on her. Only he hadn't. It was her. Being jumpy over shadows and images that weren't real and never had been.

At least that's what she kept telling herself. Over. And over. And over again.

She looked up from her laptop. Jack appeared as though he'd already been asleep. Which he probably had, seeing as the clock on her computer read 2 AM. His hair was rumpled and in the dim light of the study his stubbled chin looked vaguely bearded, as if they'd been at the cabin and he'd opted not to shave for a few days. Normally she loved the look, but tonight it looked…sinister.

She pushed the thought away.

"I've got a lot to catch up on," she replied, nodding at the computer. "I'll be there in a while." She turned her attention back to the screen, avoiding further eye contact.

He said nothing for a long while and she hoped maybe he'd just go back to bed. No such luck.

"I thought your all-night work sessions were a thing of the past," he remarked, finally. She gave an obligatory half-smile and glanced in his general direction without letting her eyes actually see him.

"It's been a while," she admitted. "But I'm too far behind. I have to get this done by morning."

"Ahh. Yes. Well. I can see how paperwork is more important than sleep."

She shrugged, pretending to overlook his tone of voice.

"In this case, it is."

She typed three lines of completely meaningless text for effect. Still, he lingered.

"Sam…."

She felt her heart ache. He was trying to figure her out. Trying to be there for her, however she needed him. And the part of her that did love him and did need him and desperately wanted him to chase away the dark things that danced in and out of her mind, longed for nothing more than to go into his arms and feel the safety that she'd always felt there.

Until the image of Fifth super-imposed itself on the face she loved so much. And made her afraid.

Afraid of sleep.

Afraid of dreams.

Afraid of Jack.

It was stupid. Ridiculous. Paranoid. And she found herself wondering if maybe she wasn't losing it, after all. How could she be afraid of Jack?

Except part of her was. Even his presence so near to her made her skin crawl with fear. Rationally she knew it wasn't Jack she was afraid of; it was Fifth. But the dreams had made the two one in the same and had robbed her of the one person she knew could possibly begin to understand their effect. The cruel irony of it hurt like hell.

"Jack…I really need to get this done," she interrupted him, and began typing again, the soft tapping of the keys filling the silence between them. After a moment she felt, more than heard, him sigh—a faint "yeah" escaping under his breath. In her periphery she saw him turn and leave the room, which suddenly felt all that much colder for his departure.

-o-o-o-o-

Heat. Lung-searing, breath-stealing, blood-boiling heat. The air shimmered with it. As much as it was air. More like vaporous acid, rank with sulfur and thick with ash that drifted down in a bizarre mockery of snow against a sky of crimson flames. Flames that had consumed every living thing in sight, leaving behind a landscape of barren waste and the stark skeletons of trees, reaching beseechingly toward an unforgiving heaven.

The ground was soaked in blood. It oozed up as out of a sponge, puddling around each booted step she took, staining the leather black and finding its way between the seams, insidiously soaking into her socks and bathing her feet in it's warm mire. She wanted to vomit. Every passing moment her gut protested the sights and sounds and sensations that surrounded her, but she fought back the bile and pushed forward, gasping with each labored breath and straining her ears against the roar of the heat-wind that blew relentlessly into her already burning face.

He was somewhere—somewhere in this hell. She could hear his voice, faint and distant, calling her…pleading with her…needing her. Needing her to find him. To save him. Because only she could do it. Only she knew how it could be done. Only she knew the way out of hell.

Except she didn't. Not really. But he was counting on her. He was depending on her. He needed her to know—to remember. So she would. Somehow she would. Once she found him.

If she found him.

The ground sucked at her feet, dragging her steps so that each movement became an agonizing effort. Her body would no longer function. Her legs refused to move. The blood pooled at her ankles like red quicksand and she cried out in blind rage. She could still hear him calling to her, closer now—his voice desperate and filled with agony. But she could not move. Not her legs. Not her arms. Not even her mouth, to call back to him. To tell him she was near. That she was coming. That she hadn't left him here, alone in his death.

In her head, she screamed in frustration.

In her head, she was shouting for him to hear.

o-o-o-o

The sound of her own voice woke her, the darkness like sudden blindness compared to the blood-stained sky in her mind. Except it wasn't really dark. A small, lone lamp glowed anemically across the room on a table, leaving most of the room in shadows. Shapes she knew and recognized. The bookcase. The side table. The chair. Someone sitting in the chair, watching her.

She was instantly on alert.

"Who's there?" she demanded, sitting up on the sofa, noting gratefully that her arms and legs once more obeyed her commands. The dark form shifted slightly.

"Just me."

Jack.

Warm relief washed over her. She wasn't even sure who she'd expected to respond, but the sound of Jack's voice was enough to calm the heart that was beating furiously in her chest.

Then it came back to her. Why she was sleeping on the sofa in the first place. Why she'd opted to catch the last few hours of sleep she'd had available here, rather than next to him in bed. Why the relief at hearing his voice and knowing he was there suddenly was fading into nervousness and uncertainty.

"What are you doing here?"

She thought she heard a humorless grunt from the darkness.

"I live here."

There was something so painful in that comment that she winced.

"I mean…why aren't you in bed?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

Her mind grasped the excuse she'd concocted before she'd fallen asleep.

"It was late. I didn't want to disturb you."

There was a dreadful pause.

"Considerate."

That made her wince too. The edge in it stung.

"You didn't tell me your reason." She couldn't believe she'd asked him that. She already knew the answer.

"Ahh. Well." She saw him lean forward in the chair. Now that she was accustom to the darkness she could see him quite well. "That would be you."

"I'm fine, Jack. Really." She suspected the words sounded as hollow to him as they did to her. Still, she tried to offer him a smile, to bolster the effect.

It did no good.

"No. You're not. In fact, you're so _not_ fine, you've got me thinking that you need to see someone. And you know how much I go in for that sort of thing."

His comment caught her off-guard.

"What do you mean, 'see someone'? As in…?"

"Someone. Professional. You know. To talk to about this stuff. Whatever it is. 'Cause you're sure as hell not willing to talk to me and I don't know what else to do."

"Jack—there's nothing wrong…."

He emitted a deep sigh and scrubbed his hands across his face. She was suddenly glad that the lack of light made his eyes indiscernible.

"Do you have any idea that you were just screaming in your sleep a minute ago? Like someone was…." His voice broke slightly and he stopped. Sam could see him studying his hands now, as he clasped and unclasped them together. "Just like yesterday—and the day before." He sighed. "I'd have woken you up—but I couldn't take you looking at me that way again…."

He knew. Somehow he'd figured out that there was more to her dreams than just monsters. That the monsters had somehow become him.

Guilt stabbed at her. She'd hurt him. It was the last thing she'd wanted to do. Because really it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her and where her mind would and would not let her go; and she needed him to know that.

Except the words wouldn't come. Not in any way that made any sense, because they didn't make any sense to her either. Because this was Jack. And he loved her. And he'd never harm her in any way. But for all that she'd tried to tell herself that the images in her dreams had no bearing on reality, she could not look at the man without a cold chill settling over her, even while her heart ached for his comfort and his care.

"I'm sorry." It was all she could manage. She looked at him, pleadingly, trying to push past the pall of insistent fear, needing him to understand. But even though she desperately wanted to tell him exactly what was going on, that small voice of doubt insisted that she couldn't. Because maybe he wasn't who she thought he was. Maybe he wasn't really him at all.

She couldn't risk it. She couldn't let down her guard. Not until the dreams went away and she was sure.

He sighed again. A heavy, weary sigh filled with a fatigue that she was certain was not merely physical. Heaving himself out of the chair, he left the room without a word. And for the second time that night, Sam felt as if all the warmth had gone out of the world.


	6. VI

**VI**

The house was dark when she got home that night, except for a small lamp left burning on a table in the hallway. She was much later than she'd intended to be, although, granted, she'd probably stayed later than had been absolutely necessary. And she had to admit it was with a certain relief that she found the house quiet and all indications suggesting that Jack had already gone to bed.

Which was good. Only not for the same reason she'd have thought it was good the past several days.

She'd had a long hard talk with herself all day and made up her mind that she was not going to let a bunch of nightmares ruin her life. An easy conclusion, she knew, in the light of day, well away from the deep recesses of her subconscious But still. Jack's comments last night had been a wake-up call. She'd been foolish to let a few meaningless images risk damaging the one truly perfect thing in her life. She was a big girl, after all. And she'd witnessed things over the years that far surpassed the visions of the past three days. Besides, Fifth was dead—if you could really call a replicator dead. Her doppelganger had destroyed him and in turn had been destroyed by the weapon on Dakara. Their counterparts in the Pegasus galaxy had been eliminated as well, save for the dozen or so that floated in limbo in the farthest recesses of the galaxy. To fear something that no longer existed and had no power over her was ridiculous.

Just as fearing Jack was ridiculous. She couldn't believe how she'd behaved toward him since the night of Weir's memorial service. Little wonder he thought she was nuts. She had even started to wonder herself, to the point where she'd actually given thought to his suggestion that she find someone professional to talk to. She'd rejected it, of course, after due consideration. She'd had plenty of psych evaluations over the course of her work with the Stargate program, none of which had done her the least bit of good. Without the shared experience of gate travel and the first-hand knowledge of the truly bizarre and complex, often life-and-death decisions she'd faced countless times, she'd always found it hard to relate to people who wanted her to talk about her feelings. In some ways, she realized, she wasn't unlike Jack in that regard. There just really wasn't any point.

Besides. As she'd already decided, there was nothing to these nightmares at all. Just a bad run of them for some unknown reason that didn't really matter in the first place. The most important thing was making things right with Jack, because she never wanted to see the hurt on his face that she'd seen the night before or feel so utterly alone as she had curled up on that small sofa waiting for the first light of dawn. She wanted things to be right, because nothing had been right for the past three days. She had done this, and it was her place to undo it.

Except, she wasn't sure quite how. Which was why she'd worked so late and hoped Jack would be in bed by the time she got home. Because she felt it would be easier to do if she could start with something normal. As normal as slipping into bed alongside Jack and going to sleep. If she could do that—and she would do that—then she'd figure out the rest of it somehow.

Switching off the small light and ignoring the slight lurch her stomach gave when the house was suddenly and completely engulfed in darkness, Sam headed for bed.

o-o-o-o

Pain. Body-wracking, soul-withering, mind-twisting pain. But not hers. Or was it? She couldn't tell. She was seeing pain—tasting it—knowing it was red like fire and black like bile and it seared her eyes and embittered her throat. But was it hers?

Yes.

And no.

Hers because she felt it in her heart. An ache of such infinite degree that the tears streamed hot down her face and sobs shook her body.

Not hers because she could see him enduring that pain. See every wound. Every twist of the knife. Every drop of acid. Every shred of life and dignity stripped from him before he fell out of her sight, into black oblivion.

And she screamed.

"Sam!"

Rough hands shook her. The sound of a voice—his voice—reached into her mind and pulled it away from the vision of his suffering and death. With it's own kind of pain, she opened her eyes and felt, more than saw him at her side, holding both her arms, shaking her.

"Sam! Stop! Stop it! You're okay. I promise you…you're okay."

She realized she was still screaming, the sound coming weirdly from her own mouth. Doing as he asked because it was, in part, second nature, she stopped and the room fell into an eerie silence broken only by the sound of her own jagged breathing and his.

"Better?" he asked, after a moment. Moonlight streamed into the room and in its light she could make out his taut and tired features, see his chest still heaving with exertion.

She nodded.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Without saying another word, he let go of her and rolled back over to his side of the bed, a soul-weary sigh coming out of semi-darkness. He was leaving her be, just as she'd wanted him to; just as she'd demanded ever since this whole thing started, by keeping him at arms length and refusing to let him in.

Only now she wanted him. More than that—she needed him. The dream in it's horrifying clarity had brought her clarity as well. And she remembered.

She remembered everything.

It was a torrent. It burst forth from the deepest regions of her memory where she had built so solid a wall around it that she hadn't even remembered it was there. A few hastily typed words on a report had summarized it, but all the rest had been dammed up, pushed far away and forgotten.

Except not really. Because here it was. The dam had broken and she was being swept away.

Gone had been the gentle touch of his innocent sharing of thoughts. In bitter vengeance he had plunged his hand into her forehead, venting his rage in the swirling emotions of her fears and doubts. He had stripped her psyche raw, taken her back to hell. Bynar. Sokar. Memories that were both hers and Jolinar's. Fire and sweat and death and pain. Her father near death. Her friends in peril. Her despair at not remembering anything beyond the vile revulsion and self-loathing buried so deeply in Jolinar's past. The stream-of-conscious meanderings of Apophis' narcotic-enhanced interrogation. Her mother's death. Her father's grief. Her own….

She'd sobbed. Pleaded with Fifth to stop. Her mind could hardly process the images, the sensations, the terror and the pain. But his anger and his need for revenge had overwhelmed any compassion she might have begged from him. He'd assaulted her again, penetrating even more deeply into her mind, thrusting his own knowledge of those things which he knew would inflict the most pain on her, over and over again. Jack's agony in the hands of Ba'al. Teal'c's brutalization in the clutches of Heru-ur. _Their_ suffering. _Their_ pain. _Their_ despair, made worse for her own inability to do anything but watch and suffer with them, helpless in her impotence. The crushing weight of hopelessness had nearly suffocated her and when he finally, mercifully had stopped, she'd lain on the floor, gasping for air, her body convulsing in grief.

"Oh, god."

She'd said it aloud, even as she felt her own body start to tremble. To her ears it sounded small and feeble and lost in the night.

But Jack must have heard it, for he stirred next to her, sat up and turned toward her.

She curled up, instinctively, protectively. But not from Jack. Never from Jack. She understood that now. It had never been Jack she feared. It had been touching this memory. And Fifth had somehow been the guardian of it. Her brain's defense from letting her get to close. From letting Jack get too close, because only he would really know. Only he would really understand what a violation it had been. And she hadn't been willing to face that.

Until now.

She looked up at him, desperation driving her to hope she hadn't pushed him too far away already. But the minute she did, she knew she needn't have feared losing him. Without a moment's hesitation he was there, holding her, cradling her against his chest, and she clung to him and wept--great wracking sobs she could not control. His arms held her tightly. Supporting her. Protecting her. Loving her. He rested his cheek against the top of her head and gently rocked her, murmuring soothing words of comfort as, spent, she simply lay against him, shuddering heaves spasming through her. His hand smoothed her hair away from her face and he kissed her softly on the forehead.

"Do you want to tell me, now?"

She nodded, still grasping his shirt in her fist, hoping he wouldn't let go of her.

Like he ever would.

She told him. It came pouring out. All the ugliness Fifth had ripped from her deepest memories, all the suffering and despair he'd forced into her from his own. The horrid and grotesque. The evil and the sordid. Things that pierced her heart, that laid waste to the protective barriers she'd built around her most hidden fears, that forced her to endure the suffering of those she loved most, witness to torments she could not stop. The violation of her innermost hopes and dreams. The rape of her mind and her memory.

And when she ran out of words and could only shiver uncontrollably in his arms, he pulled the blanket off the end of the bed and wrapped it around the two of them, making a cocoon and holding her head against his heart. There was a steadiness to its solid rhythm that she found calming, soothing. And she realized that it had always been that way. Jack's heart. Constant and sure. In passion, in love, in weariness, in fear—even in doubt. It was always there for her. And always had been.

"I'm sorry," he said, after they'd been silent for some time. She was wrung out. Empty. Incapable of movement. She could only lay there, exhausted, in his arms. Arms she never wanted to leave again.

"For what?" she asked, perplexed, tilting her head back to look at him. The cast of moonlight on his face had it half in shadow, half in light.

"What happened to you was my fault."

She pushed away from him to see him more fully.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, incredulously. "You weren't even there."

"Exactly."

She could see he was serious. The self-recrimination was all over his face. She shook her head in disagreement.

"No. Jack—don't. You're not responsible. It just…happened."

He pulled her to him again, wrapping his arms around her even more tightly and saying nothing. Yet she could almost read his thoughts. He blamed himself—because it had been on his order that she'd betrayed Fifth in the first place—because he'd been the reason she'd been out there looking for the Asgard anyway. But of course, even if neither of these had been in play, he'd have shouldered the blame regardless, for no other reason than that he simply hadn't been there to stop it from happening. Which she knew only too well, for Jack, was the greatest failing of all.

She wanted to muster the energy to argue with him—convince him that he was wrong; but she knew it wouldn't do any good. And she realized that he'd been carrying this burden for a long time already. Even though she'd never talked about it, he'd have suspected what Fifth had done—hiding his own pain as he had so often during that time when their separateness had hurt them so much. Maybe bringing it out of the dark had done them both good.

She found his hand in the half-light and interlaced her fingers with his. Understanding passed between them. Shared pain. Shared need. Shared comfort.

And most welcome of all, shared peace.

Night folded around them like the blanket.

Sam closed her eyes and let sleep come.


End file.
